Page 15 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
Cartier is about to ask why we’re here when I stop her with a finger on her lips. They’re soft and moist, and I want to smother her mouth with mine, breathe in her oxygen, taste every inch of her. But for once, the anticipation of exploring Cartier’s body later, when she’s ready, is holding the reins to my loins, and who am I to argue?
New experience: you got it.
Inside the building, there are no posters announcing what to expect. Just a couple of burly guys watching the arrivals from behind black wraparound shades.
“Should I be scared?” Cartier stands on tiptoes and whispers in my ear.
I lean into her breath, as a shiver travels down my spine. “Not while you’re with me.”
We wait for the digital light above the internal door to turn green before we enter the first room.
We’re standing in darkness, the only light coming from a shipping container sized area designed to resemble a baby’s nursery. The three walls are painted white. The rocking crib is white. The blankets spilling over the side of the crib, the gigantic soft toys placed around the room, the painted-on windows, the flooring, the building blocks and toy cars and dolls in frilly dresses: everything is white.
Cartier takes it all in, her hand still in mine. I sense the rise and fall of her chest as she inhales the scene. Then, “It’s beautiful.”
On cue, a light flickers on behind us displaying an assortment of random objects. A single red rose. A baby shoe. A black table lamp. Silver scissors. Sticky tape, a cardboard carton, an envelope covered in stamps, an empty gin bottle, a vibrant chiffon scarf.
The sign on the table reads:Place one object inside the display.
“One object?” She faces me, chewing on her bottom lip, something that I never expected to find as fucking sexy as I do. “What should we choose?”
I shrug. “This is your night, Cartier. Your decision.”
Is her face flushed or is it the lighting in here?
She touches each object in turn as if a buzzer might announce when she finds the correct one. Then she picks up the envelope and studies the stamps.
“This one.”
“Where will you put it?”
I’ve visited the exhibition before, but the displays were different, and I was too drunk to care about the objects. Now I find myself trying to figure out the reason behind her choice, which I guess is the whole point.
Cartier enters the nursery scene with her head down as if afraid of disturbing a sleeping infant. Then she places the envelope carefully inside the crib. She turns around and smiles wistfully.
“The crib is empty because the family is experiencing life first.” She inhales deeply. “At least, I hope they are.”
The second scene is a classroom. The colors are real, but when we look closely, we see that the open books on the desk are filled with hieroglyphics, and the writing on the chalkboard is black, barely visible even with the stark overhead lamp. When it comes to choosing an object, Cartier overlooks the white chalk for a colorful eye patch which she places on the seat at the back of the scene.
We don’t speak as we make our way around the exhibition. Occasionally, Cartier lets out a gasp of surprise, or a sigh when she places an object inside the display, but I sense what she is feeling as though we’re connected telepathically.
The final scene is unexpected.
A woman wearing a black corset and fishnet stockings, her face hidden behind an elaborate mask, is sitting the wrong way on a hard-backed seat on a raised platform designed to represent a stage. The backdrop is an audience of blurred faces. No other props. A man in a vest and suit pants a couple sizes too big for him, has both hands on his belt as if preparing to unbuckle it.
It's the only scene with actors, and the meaning behind it is unmistakable.
Had I known, I wouldn’t have brought Cartier because I feel the tension oozing from her pores, undoing the way the cocktail made her feel earlier in the evening.
“You don’t have to do this.” I place my hands on her shoulders and turn her around to face me. “We can go.”
She peers into my eyes as if she can see right through me. Then, “You brought me here for the experience. If I don’t finish it, I’ll never be able to let it go.”
I get it. This is art, and like all art and entertainment, it’s only as good as the emotions experienced by the audience. I nod and stand aside.
The objects in this scene are more personal. A silk-lined cloak, a gold-topped cane, some candy, a camera, red lipstick, a bus ticket.
Cartier doesn’t need time to consider her options. She picks up the bus ticket and places it in the man’s hand as if he is offering it to the woman in the corset.
